Blues for Whitefish Lake, 1975

Heading across the lake in my little boat
A surface of glass
I am bound for a notch in the trees
Rotting wooden steps
It’s difficult to see in the waning light
Of northland’s October evening
Concentrate on the pool of water
That travels from bow to stern

I have a small outboard, lent to me by my uncle
In need of slight repair
It feels like it’s taking forever
To reach the farthest shore
When I see a scrap of neon
Floating like a balloon caught in the trees
Concentrate on the darkening treeline
Concentrate on the sinking dock

I can hеar voices from above me
On thе steepest part of the bank
And listen for the voice of my father
In the midst of the pines
There is a bar at the top of the staircase
Hidden amongst the leaves
Concentrate on the face of my father
Concentrate on the last shirt I saw him wear

There is an aging fishing boat at the dock
Mostly sunk into the mud
The steps are all but gone now
Rotten to my tread
I cling to branches to keep from slipping
The rain is coming on
Concentrate on never falling
Concentrate on never climbing back down